one word. one thing
shows up on my face.

everybody knows it is a
keepsake:
keep away from me today,
for fks sake!

certain peculiarmornings
wake with a cross on forehead.

days when you certain,
everything worth saying
has been written, sung,
not a **** thing left to
contribute, except whining.

no way to purge, the compulsion
welling up, coursing down.
this overwhelms, my outlet store,
permanent closed, sign says
don’t ya know it’s a recession.

a one man recession.
no government intervention
gonna come my way.

the notion that I’ll never just
once more, feel the thrill of a
first love, a new born progeny,
woman, baby, poem, no diff,
wrecks me badly, worried sun consults
my animal friends, what’s to be done?

knowing the answer to my curse is,
not one wiling to courage to curettage
the lining of my decrepitude,
the end then, of no more next time.

though there is a first here. ever.
first time, every stanza writ,
closed off, finally ended, with a flourish,
a puncture of a period.

~~~~~~~~

postscript:


the closing scheduled for now,
have to change the name, says York,
it’s the common law, I’m legal bound,
gonna sign the documents as
no more love poetry.

919am Wed Jul 22 2020

When I was eight,  
The Great Recession began.  
During it,  
I heard a line
that floated
off the page of a poem
and into me
“We hope the world survives.”
– Hope –  
I remember that
and the nights I spent  
sat up  
on the uncomfortable  
wheezy wooden floor
of my home
constructing a new one  
from Legos,
where I could see  
by way of a light switch
not a Coleman lantern.  
Where I could eat
by way of a real stove top
not a portable one.  
You’d think  
that I was camping,  
not sweating  
in the stagnant air
of a house  
devoid of power.  
Now,  
a virus moves
unseen among grass
beneath out feet,  
flirts between the vacancy  
of embraces
and  
the fear of a handshake.  
We speak words
underneath masks
and hope –  
that this,
will be over soon.

A for Austerity, P for Poverty,
R for Recession, and U for Unemployment.
Recession is in town with her three

Un-amusing friends, whose hands are always
on their lips; and wherever the gang goes
they take away the fun from that place;

tinny Tanana biko biko! Whose car is
unemployment going to take away, to
make him use his leg-dis benz?

Eeny Meeny Miney mo! Whose house is poverty
going to crash in, and undo a
lifetime’s work in a matter of weeks?

tinny Tanana, biko biko! What will austerity
sell to the state? Is it a string for
the ministers to tighten the state purse?

Hear! Hear! Recession is in town. Bad
policies invited her with her three friends
to party and paint the town gray;

shame on the leaders on whose watch the
doors of the state were opened to recession
and her three friends; their ears will

be filled with the wailing and insults of the
populace, like the cry of a widow, whose
only son has passed away, fills the house.

Green night in the middle of the day…
Fire rising to ****** the moon,
Uncle Sam’s praying in my room
And the 8-ball will not say

Why a woman holds a gun
To her husband’s sleeping head;
Does she play or just wish him dead?
An armadillo’s included for fun.

Uncle Sam’s lost his hat in the fire
Maybe that’s why he’s praying.
Not for the country he should be saving
While we are conquered by liars.

I’ve tried to make sense of this before:
Masked fiddlers strum in the conflagration,
Dead books, butterflies and chimps run the nation,
…there is luggage on the floor.

Should I run from the scene,
Or stay and try to fight?
I can’t read my books in the deepening night
And there’s a skull waiting just to scream.

The man sleeps on with a gun at his head
And I see another skull by his side.
It must be a sign saying: “run and hide”.
But why can’t I do it?
There’s no way to get through it,
But I must wake up and fight or I’m dead.

June 1, 2006

However am I expected,
When a criminal is elected,
Not to be depressed?
I’m certainly not impressed.
We began to make strides
To set ignorance aside
Then along came the jerks
To destroy all our works,
To protect the weak and sick,
With lies and political tricks.

By the time those fools awake
The crooks will surely take
Our country to the brink
And watch it slowly sink
Then they’ll blame it on us
Who didn’t raise enough fuss
To keep their twisted games
And their feet to the flames.
Instead we’ll watch defeat
Throw us all into the street.

Why can’t people understand
That by not helping our land
And the people that live here
And giving into bogus fears
We are putting big money in
To the pockets of those who win.
By denying any help and aid
To those who actually paid
Will make the rich much richer
And then they’ll break the pitcher?

The pitcher of milk and honey
Has become nothing but money
Because the poor suffering
Makes them trust the muttering
Of those who prefer to blame
Than investigate the game
That is played on us all
And that causes the fall
When wealth takes control
And digs us further into a hole.